


The Rite

by IstTyrr



Category: Pillars of Eternity
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Spiritshift, Suggestive Themes, Surreal, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-07 06:33:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11617950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IstTyrr/pseuds/IstTyrr
Summary: This tale debates the impact of Life and Death in the journey to self discovery. Hiravias' POV.





	1. Initiation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Обряд](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16496033) by [Glololo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glololo/pseuds/Glololo)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This tale debates the impact of Life and Death in the journey to self discovery. Hiravias' POV.

He has no idea what it is exactly. That _thing_ which keeps him coming back and lingering or catching up to walk in pace with her at the vanguard of their little group. And not knowing is thrilling him to puzzle it out. But one thing he knows, he _needs_ it, the urge pulls hard at him. And that is good enough.

Wael knows, she's not fetching. Not by any standards he understands at least. She's not shapely like the lasses at the Salty Mast. She does not give him that furious rise a _delemgan_ does. Nor is she striking like that other knight that sticks with them - Pallegina. To tell the truth, she's pale and nondescript.

Save that **scar** ; that _rift_ that cleaves her face sideways. A more distinguishing mark than any to be fair. And yes, perhaps that was it. The camaraderie that often develops between kith with a ruined visage.  
Alright, maybe it was just him. She had not taken a particular interest in his mutilation. When her gaze fell on his eyepatch, she had asked only of his faith.

Because she is a _priest_. Some cult devoted to Berath. And priests like to talk about those things. Right? Hiravias could not decide if he thought she was mysterious or simply very dull. Maybe she was growing on him.  
Because there was certainly no change in her. She still marched with the same tread, regardless if he was walking beside her or not. She cut down foes with the same sword moves and said the same prayers over their slashed bodies. She still had not told him where her scar had come from, even after he had spilled his guts on every imaginable topic. Then again, she did not say much.  
Maybe that was it.

So what was he doing here, hiding in this crack on the wall, watching her bathe?  
Well, he was watching her. He had spent a lot of time watching her. He watched her practice her technique after dawn and he watched her say her rites before dusk. There was an irony to it; Here he was doing all the watching and it was _her_ they called "Watcher".

But not once had he seen her _in the flesh_. Not buttoned to the teeth in plate armour; a garish cage bearing the bizarre insignia of whatever it was she worshipped. Did the steel she wore on the killing field made her who she was? He half expected her skin to sag around her bones, like the grotesque depictions of the Usher, painted by his clan to frighten small children and intrepid _estramorwns_.

But no. She bore the wide shoulders and musculature of a warrior. Her grey flesh was marked predictably where blades had sunk through the gaps in her armour and bruised were the plate had dented. Hiravias read her body and it was a story he knew well; One who wields a two handed weapon and fights without a shield.  
He remembered the few times she smiled, a quiet quirk of the lips, nothing more. And reserved only for simple things. Like wildflowers in her hair. He picked those for her, blue and humble, the Dyrwoodans called " _Berath's Bell_ ".

Did it matter what he felt? The mind haze from his heartbeat in his ears? The flame that ate away his throat, in his chest, between his legs? Did it matter what he felt to anyone but himself? He was driven into this room with one desire: to see for himself that under all that armour, she was flesh and blood. **Mortal** , just like the rest of them. To answer the question he thought to find out, that without her armour, she could have been anyone; A familiar stranger, passing him by on the road.  
And now he knew that this could never have been true. Because it was not her nakedness that stood out. Covered as she was in nothing but scars, both old and new, Hiravias knew her for who she was:

A survivor. Just like himself.


	2. Cleansing

Any other night, he would have stood like the bog cranes that fished for prey back home. Still for hours.  
But tonight, the Watcher was nursing an injury. Hiravias could tell her pain in every stiff and calculated movement. He could smell it and the blood rush beating in his temples, sharpened his senses. And he knew that if he could, he would **eat** her. What he wanted and what he needed fought like hounds, tearing his insides. Helpless, he leaned against the wall to see better. He needed to see.

It only took one slip. A faint shuffle of the feet, nothing more, yet it was enough to alert her to his presence. Instantly, her fingers found the knife laid on the side table and she pointed at his direction.

"Come out and face me!"  
Hiravias heard her words ring out against stone but he had not broken his cover. His heart drummed in his chest, fearful, _excited_.  
It was not too late, he realised, to turn around and flee. That would be the _wise_ thing to do. As it would have been wise not to challenge Galawain, praying for a test of mettle. But Hiravias had not shied away from that clearing. And he had not run away from the Stelgaer.

 **Foolishly** , he stepped out.  
Oblivious to her nakedness, she held out the dagger, favouring her stronger flank. It was a warning to stay back. From the trembling in her muscles, Hiravias knew she was too weary for an attack. But her posture affirmed she would do it, if she had to.

"Show yourself!" she demanded.

Hiravias did as she bid him and pulled back the hood of his cloak. Instantly, her shoulders relaxed and she lowered her arms.  He gave her a bashful smile and he could feel the redness creeping up on his face, as he felt his erection pressing against the fabric of his trousers. He hoped neither showed.  
And he was lucky.

" **You?** " she queried in mild disbelief and the scar on her visage shifted as her cruel, battle-ready expression gave way to the usual mask of apathy. Or perhaps it was sadness. The dagger returned to the table.  
Hiravias pondered if he could simply play it off, as he gave her a half wave and the most disarming smile he could muster, given the circumstances.

"Oh, I was simply passing by on my own business, when I happened upon your bathing chambers." He heard his voice say with exaggerated bravado. But his pulse was loud enough for her to hear. "I hope you do not begrudge me for stopping to admire the view."  
She made an indecipherable sound, as she scrutinised him for a second. Had he angered or pleased her, he could not tell. At least both his cock and his remaining ear were still in place, for now.

"Come then, **aid me** ", she said morosely, "And in return, I will forget your _indiscretion_."  
Hiravias felt his eyebrow shoot up in surprise and for a moment he forgot all apprehension.

"Are my ears deceiving me?", he exclaimed helplessly, "Or did you finally sniff the wrong dyrcap? You want me to _help_ you?"  
Instead of an answer, she sat down on a short stool behind her and fixed him with a cool stare.

"Remove your cloak", she said finally.

He swallowed. Oh, he could do that. His fingers moved of their own accord, as he undid the thread around his neck and let the fabric fall. This was easy, he knew how to please her. And he could do so much more. All she had to do was **ask**.  
The only thing he couldn't do was her _rejection_.  
She regarded him approach like a hawk, but as he took place behind her, she inlcined her head in surrender. Or was it that she **trusted** him?

From up close, her wound looked raw and garish, digging into her side like a burrow. Even though stitched and tended to, it still bled a vivid colour. Hiravias traced its contour between two fingers but stopped when he heard her hiss. He moved his mouth closer and uttered the mending spell that would soothe her, as it had done all those times before. Watching the bleeding stop and weld, he blew across it a light, cooling breath.

Her hair fell in strands, loose and matted from water and he had to brush them aside to expose her back. Silver scars streaked her surface and it would take him all night if he ever wished to count them. For a moment he felt he could bite into her neck. He could have been her lover if a slip of fate permitted him to. Where was that thought all this time, that he needed it?  
Slowly, he tended to her. Taking his time to renew the soap on the sponge and wash her wound, then the rest of her skin, with careful strokes. Just like when he traced the lines on his sketchbook, with a piece of coal; Seeds and saplings and the shape of the scar on her face.

 _Wael_ , she was patient or maybe she had just dozed off. The water had grown lukewarm and when he poured it on her from the bowl, she stirred.


	3. Anointment

" **You** and **I** , we will be **persecuted**."

She threw that out there and of course, she didn't elaborate. Yet Hiravias felt the _unease_ of fears that were always lurking around the corner.  
Would it be for some crime they committed in ignorance? The trail of blood they left in their hunt for Thaos spoke for itself.  
Or would it be simply because of who they were? Was exile not payment enough for having been born as the being that he was - not even because of his actions?  
  
Maybe this has always been about **faith**. If the gods kept their promises, then her soul would writhe in torment for all the _Places_ she had trespassed on. And the gods kept their promises, that he knew well. Running away from Galawain, screaming as he had, with tail between his legs did not mean it was over. He prayed to Wael for guidance to a **new** path, a path _unknown,_ even to the Seeker god. But with every step, he still looked over his shoulder, waiting for the Hound to catch up with him and lease him back in. Or finish off what it had started.

And what of _her_? Did she think that giving in to life and its pleasures was atrocity in the eyes of Berath?  
Did she believe that her daring to feel _happiness_ irrevocably betrayed some pact with the death god?  
  
Or did she speak about the two of them rolling together in **ecstasy** and **lust**?

And then he knew what he had to do; He knew he had to ask it and that this was the moment he had been waiting for.  
He leaned in above her shoulder, close enough that his lips were almost upon her ear, but it was only his breath that touched her as it came out:  
  
"Do you want me to **fuck you** , Mathon?"  
  
At his question, Hiravias felt her stiffen instantly, like an instinctive reaction to something that went against her nature.  
But nonchalant, she turned back and he could see her mouth forming the words:  
  
"Come here"  
  
It was a low sound, like a _secret_. It said **yes** to something and **no** to something else. He could not puzzle it out so he did as he was told and stood before her.  
With delight, Hiravias felt her reach for his chest, tugging at the strings that tied the folds of his shirt together. Impatience gripped him; At that moment, nothing gave him more pleasure than the anticipation of revealing himself to her. Fumbling with the notion simply wouldn't do. He undid his belt and let it clatter on the floor, promptly removing every garment that stood between her and his skin. The final frontier.

Now they were on equal terms. More than anything, he wanted to smile with all his teeth. Stand there and grin triumphantly at some unattainable victory he had, somehow, achieved. And he almost did.  
Until he felt the cool water poured on his own body, that made his fur stand on end. Then her diligent hand drew the sponge across his flesh and all his momentum was damped down and lost. Hiravias felt his jaw clench and he could not tell if all his heat was wrenched by surprise or plain anger.  He looked at her for an answer but behind the glass of her eyes there was no sentiment, as she dutifully scrubbed away the labours of the day from his limbs.

Had she not _heard_ him? Had she **ignored** his desire?

Anger wrestled away any doubt and his hands clamped down on her thighs. He almost dug his nails into her, as his grip strenghtened and for a moment, the Staelgar in him threatened to jump out. Hiravias could feel it straining in his skull, growling, snapping its jaws. For fear that he could not hold it in any longer, he grasped her shoulders instead. He _needed_ to bring her to her senses.  
  
"What **is** it with _you_?", he felt his fury spit back, "Is it that you **can't** or that you _won't_? Have you made up your mind? Are you _already_ dead?"  
In response, her eyes locked with his. Her gaze was serene and offered no explanations.

"You do not know what you ask", she calmly told him. "You cannot ask Berath his affection. **Hunger** , **Disease** and **Conquest** , those are his compliments." She hesitated a moment, "Do you know what it means, to _flirt_ with **Death**?"  
  
" **Show me** ", Hiravias uttered in a quiet, hungry plea. He had no idea what was reflected in his expression; Resignation? Determination?  
She had to understand, he was not going anywhere until he had her. She belonged with him.  
  
And whatever she saw, curbed her resistance and she nodded.The knife was in her hand again and she drew the blade across her thumb. The smell of her blood hit him and like it never left, his lust for her rekindled the boiling in his veins. He was _famished_. If she did not stop, he would consume her. Not to destroy her; to become one with her. Her movements were measured, _reverent_ , as she slowly, methodically pressed her finger on his forehead and painted the Wheel -  spiraling, whirling, eating is own tail. The grotesque art of Life and Death.

And he wanted to protest; this mindless waste of her lifeblood. But her thumb drew across his lips, speading them apart, staining them red. He felt _thirst_ , like a man parched after a long trek. Unwilling, his tongue darted out for a taste and he closed his eye to savour it. Sweet, like a raw kill after a perilous hunt. It was not enough, he needed more. He grabbed her wrist with both hands and passed his tongue along the cut on her finger.

He half expected her to turn him down. Tell him to leave. She _didn't_.  
Instead, she let him drink. And when the flow stopped, she dragged her hand to his cheek and her fingers curled behind his ear.

For the first time since he ever laid an eye on her, there was some semblance of _feeling_ on her countenance. Her breath came out hard between parted lips; he could hear it and he could see it, as her chest heaved. And her gaze was clouded.

Almost as if she was...


	4. Consummation

_...Aroused?_

The air between them reeked of uncertainty, blurring the lines between what he knew and what he feared. A part of him wanted to find the right words, to make sure he had not misunderstood. Another part ached to let his hands do the talking.

" **Let this be a _lesson_** " she intoned, voice lower still _._ Hiravias felt her pull him closer and he bridged the distance in one step. Their lips brushed together before he grasped her jaw and covered her mouth with his.

The impact of their kiss hit him like a plunge into deep waters from great height. He had heard kith tell the tales of how Death was a lonesome road with no beginning and no end. That the stars would fall onto sunlight and your soul would still be treading; Condemned, in a trail across Glanfath to the Dyrwood with nothing but your wits.

And then, finally, he realised why he was here, what he had come for. He was on a **quest** ; He had _questions_ that sought _answers_.  
Why had he withstood his exile? Why had the Autumn Staelgar not made a meal out of him? Why was he, the runt of the litter, gifted life?

In the dark well of her throat, he searched with breath and tongue but there were no revelations. The only promise this path held was **isolation**. It felt like swimming against a vortex that threatened to swallow him whole; both fighting it and heading towards it unerringly. Wearingness caught up with him, weakening his limbs, twisting his gut. Like the swamp fever that rose each spring from the Bog. _Pestilence._   Yet he would not stop kissing her. He thought, if he set at it hard enough, he would find her. He would find _himself_.  
The moment he knew he was at the brink, his soul close to being chilled and shredded apart, he felt her grasp his arms and break their contact.  
  
" **It is not your time yet** ," she whispered between calculated breaths.

He hugged her. Buried his face in the crook of her neck. Closed his arms around her back. Not because he needed the warmth. Because he did not want her to see the tears that had erupted from within. He did not feel like crying but that didn't seem to matter. It was happening anyway; his tears were streaming down his eye without his permission. It did not matter because she was still holding him close. His lips moved against her skin, to call her name: _Mathon, Mathon, Mathon_ \- but it was only sobbing that came out.  
How long since he last let his sorrow overwhelm him? Weeks, months, years? They all collided upon the day he was cast out. When everything he believed in was turned against him. His god, his clan, his own mother had forsaken him. And he wanted to weep it all out of him, until he was empty. The Hiravias he knew, perish. Become someone new.

Firm hands clasped both sides of his face and she held him out before her. Wiped away his tears. Then let her palms fall on his shoulders and she slowly stood up.

"Now," she said, "take off your eyepatch. " _ **Show me your true belief**_."

Where had this desire come from? Where was it lurking all this time that he knew her?  
He wanted to show her. He wanted it more than anything. It was true that he had hidden himself; he had become instead a trickster, to _trick_ himself. Because what terrified him was not the beast of Galawain, stalking behind his back, hounding him or the Staelgar that looked back at him from his reflection. But the monster _inside_. The one that demanded everything from him; Barked that everything was prey. Urged him to take it by force. And threatened to consume him in a moment of weakness. Savage, devour and destroy everything he loved.  
**He would not allow it.** Only when he was dead and gone. That was the decision he fought with every step of the way. That was the choice he made every waking moment. Hiravias lifted his hand to his eyepatch and he pulled until there was nothing left to hide.  
  
And then, it happened. At the sight of his barenaked face with the gruesome, shrunk down scar that was his eyesocket, she smiled. The subtle curl of the lips, reserved only for simple things. She knew him now. Her hands caressed his cheeks, glided over the fiery curls that nested on his head and captured them in her palms like butterflies. He closed his eye to savor her touch. The inexplicable joy of having shed everything that chained him. The only thing that remained was the yoke; a shadow self that had worn out on him, like a cloak that was not his. Because what he wanted was already here. And it always had been.

Hiravias felt the golden seed inside his chest glow with a hungry fire. Growing roots that dug through the stones below to find soil. Sprouting branches that stretched to the end of his limbs, to his talons, to the whip of his tail. Blooming in his head and filling it with a thousand ideas. With a sigh of relief, his soul settled unhindered inside his form. Finally in place. He slowly opened his eye again, to be greeted with her smile. A genuine smile for once, as she looked up at him, threading her fingers through the autumn fur of his arms. He growled soflty, in contentment, holding her body that now seemed enveloped in his paws.  
If Death was inevitable, then so was Life. An interwoven destiny, where one waxed as the other waned, incessantly. But those were the concerns of the gods. What truly mattered was what lay between them. The unbeaten path that was his alone to carve. No longer as a drifter without purpose. But as a traveller of his own Journey.  
  
**_"_** ** _Bewnen i Ankew"_**

It left his throat as a rumble from an open maw. The only words worth speaking. A lover's highest devotion and a mating call. Her smile coloured her eyes, as she reached to embrace him and he lifted her close to his ear. All to hear her whisper back;

**_"Ankew i Bewnen"_ **

 

 


End file.
